Horses in Love, continued
...
I left the office. Time to get a better
feel for the zebra duns. I walked about 50 yards across the dusty,
potholed parking lot to my Volvo. I passed a family selling used
tack out of the back of a pickup. A little dark-haired girl approached
me, a red heeler puppie in her arms. "Only fifty dolllars."
Some dozen folks on the
catwalk looked to be entertaining themselves over me. I didn't
dare lose my concentration long enough to figure out whether
they were making fun of me or admiring my courage.
At the car I put on helmet, leather jacket
and gloves. Then I circled around the west side of the building
to the holding pens. I began to slide between the pipe bars where
the striped ponies stood.
They froze facing me. I eased in a little
further. They spooked, whirling away, hoof beats muffled by the
carpet of dried manure. They huddled in the far corner, turning
their rumps to me. An obviously pregnant mare flared her nostrils.
Was she trying to catch my scent over the stockyard aroma? A
yearling hid behind a mare, lowered her muzzle almost to the
ground, and sneaked a look at me.
I imitated the yearling, acting interested
in the ground. Then I nodded my head and blew out my breath as
if I was just another horse saying hello in their body language.
Being careful not to look directly at any of them, I sauntered,
still nodding my head, still studying the ground, toward the
center of the corral. "Oh, ho, ho," I softly rumbled
in my best imitation of a horse's "Howdy. Thi--i--is is
verrry bo-o-oring." I hoped it really would be boring.
As I crossed some invisible line, they
took off running, circling tight against the fence, seeking a
spot as far from me as they could manage. My stomach hurt. Briefly.
Maybe Charlie was right. Naw.
I walked in a tiny circle in the middle
of the corral, still not looking directly at the gold and brown
bodies that had slowed to a trot. If I were to stare at them,
they might panic, climbing over each other, rearing in terror,
stampeding over me. I'd leave the hospital gimping like the those
broken down wranglers. Shoot, I already walked with a limp. Don't
ever try having a Throughbred dance on top of you...
I glanced upward at the catwalk. A bow-legged
man with skin the color of an old stock saddle was staring at
me from under a battered Stetson. Was he smirking? Perhaps my
sissy English-style helmet amused him.
Actually, now that I thought about it,
some dozen folks on the catwalk looked to be entertaining themselves
over me. I didn't dare lose my concentration long enough to figure
out whether they were making fun of me or admiring my courage.
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